


Ouroboros

by isabeau



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Kinda old fic (pre-2005), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-01
Updated: 2005-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabeau/pseuds/isabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malfoy an' Potter, sittin' in a tree...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

Malfoys can have anything they want.

My father told me that, many times, urging me on to Malfoyish glory. He also told me that there were Certain People that Malfoys Did Not Associate With. I broke the second rule, so I suppose it was only fair, in the eyes of Fate, that the first rule would not hold true.

I'm not sure how or when I first fell in love with Potter. At first, our trysts were just a lark -- the adrenaline rush of doing something Forbidden was incredible. Potter was Gryffindor, I was Slytherin, and in public, we were fierce rivals. To be kissing him -- for at that time, I was naive enough to think that kissing was the height of rebellion -- to kiss him in secret gave me thrills that nothing else could.

Later, of course, we discovered sex, and moved from clumsy adolescent gropings to more powerful, more primal acts. It was then that I started feeling the hunger. It was raw and wordless, and the only time I didn't feel it was when I was in Potter's arms. I was beyond happy when we were together, and hollow and lonely when we were apart.

I wonder if Potter ever knew that I would do anything for him.

It was always our secret. Potter insisted on it -- "Gryffindors and Slytherins do not mix," he said, sounding enough like my father that I wanted to laugh, or perhaps weep. For the first time, I felt anger towards the Sorting Hat at separating us in such a fashion -- even though, when we were Sorted, there was no 'us' to separate. I wheedled the Headmaster into letting me wear the Sorting Hat one afternoon, and I whispered into its darkness:

"Change me. I don't want to be a Slytherin any more."

But the Hat stayed silent.

My father found out, the summer before graduation. I don't really remember how, and it doesn't matter; I could not deny it. He beat me with a cold indifference that was worse than anger, and made me promise never to approach "that Potter boy" again. Malfoys, after all, did not mix with Potters, and he would be damned before his only son consorted with such folk. I promised, and bore his punishment with dry eyes and a white face, and then healed the visible wounds before going back to Hogwarts...

...and to Potter.

I think he knew that something was wrong, that something had happened, but he didn't ask, and I volunteered nothing. It was not his business. But I could not obey my father's commands, even if I felt they were right. The hunger had grown inside me, until I could not bear any moment I was not touching Potter.

The last time we were together in any significant way was the night before graduation. Both of us knew that, once we were beyond Hogwarts, our relationship could not continue. Malfoys and Potters did not mix, from anyone's view but our own. I wept silently as he entered me, claimed me as his own -- how could I enjoy it, when I would always belong to him and yet never be his? -- and then turned a dry face to him for a final, lingering kiss.

We wrote to each other, and I felt a queer rush of joy every time I saw his owl fly towards me, but the letters were never about anything in particular; and when he married, I learned of it not from him, but from the rumor mill, well after the fact. I tracked him down and went before him, anger and tears my only wedding present.

"Why?"

He looked at me, expression melting from confusion into compassion, and said, "Because I love her."

I knew it was the truth, and I hated him. From then on, I burned his letters unread.

Potter was my first love, and in some sense my only. I married, as was proper, but my wife was not my lover. The marriage was only a social construct, nothing more.

Years later, there was another piece of news: he was dead, and Voldemort defeated. In public, my family behaved as proper wizards should, rejoicing in the death of Voldemort and expressing polite regret over the death of Potter and his wife. In private, where only Malfoys were, we mourned the loss of Voldemort, and treated Potter's demise with weary contempt.

In my own room, where no one could see, I wept until I thought I would break, and my tears were not for Voldemort.

* * *

Life, it seems, has a way of repeating itself in the most unpleasant way.

Long after I stopped thinking of Potter -- his memory was not forgotten, never forgotten, but banished to the back of my mind where I delved only in the rare times I wanted to -- my son, treading in my footsteps in all ways, followed me unconsciously into Potter obsession.

He claimed it was only a passing amusement, but I could read the truth in his eyes. My son hated Potter's son, and my son loved Potter's son, and there was nothing I could do. I knew that, and still I tried. I beat him, and I made him promise to stop associating with Potter's son. "We are Malfoys," I told him. "We do not associate with their sort."

"Yes," my son said, white-faced and dry-eyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat early on in HP fandom, there was a mailing list for slash; and at one point there was a discussion about relationship tagging, because it was common (except in the case of Weasleys) to use surnames only, and there were some people who felt that full names should be used to avoid ambiguity.
> 
> This prompted me to take full advantage of the ambiguity, by labeling a fic Malfoy/Potter... but not specifying which generation, and allowing it to be read either way.


End file.
